Midnight in the Parlour
by MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: Belle French lives a quiet, provincial life working as a mortuary beautician until the day that Mr. Gold, whom she has loved from afar, turns up dead in her funeral Parlour. Or is he?


Belle French lives a quiet, provincial life working as a mortuary beautician until the day that Mr. Gold, whom she has loved from afar, turns up dead in her funeral Parlour. Or is he? 2016 TEA WINNER - BEST RUMBELLE REVELRY

A/N: In honor of Halloween, I made revisions to the original "Midnight in the Parlour" and combined it with its follow-up happy ending piece, "The Bravest Heart." The two stories are meant to be one and together they make for a much more satisfying tale and a happy ending. I also added a bit of smut, which I hope the Rumbelle fandom doesn't mind ;-)

I like this version much better; if it's new to you, I hope you will give it a read. If not, I hope you will take a moment to rediscover it.

Friday, October 30th – Storybrooke  
Close to Midnight

Coffee. She needs coffee if she's going to remain alert in the dead of night. Rubbing her bloodshot eyes, Belle French walks barefoot to the old-fashioned percolator and pours a steaming mugful. Taking a fortifying sip of the thick, black brew, she grimaces, wishing for a spoonful of sugar. Her beverage of choice is spearmint tea, but to stay awake tonight she'll need caffeine thrumming through her veins.

It's nearly midnight at the Parlour, and Belle surveys her workmanship with a critical eye. Dabbing a touch more rouge onto Mrs. Morgan's wizened cheeks, she whispers a benediction, brushes a kiss across the deceased's folded hands, and wheels the open casket against the wall. "You don't look the least bit pale," she tells the dead woman.

As she washes and arranges their hair, applies cosmetics, and makes them look as natural as possible, she carries on a one-sided conversation with the deceased. There's no one else to talk to, after all, except maybe the embalmer Ruby. In Belle's experience, mortuary beauticians don't exactly collect friends.

Not that she'd had any before she became a makeup artist to the dead, anyway.

Now begin the long hours of waiting. For what or whom, Belle never knows. Dubbed the Icebox, the refrigeration unit in the Parlour basement is the only one in Storybrooke. It's her responsibility to keep a watchful vigil, admitting the dearly departed for storage until they're prepared for their final rest.

Belle hadn't planned on becoming a mortuary beautician. Rather, it was a role she had fallen into as the dutiful only daughter of Moe French. Five years ago, her father had taken over the Parlour when the withering business at his flower shop coincided with the sudden, inexplicable death of the former funeral director. The enterprising Mr. French had reasoned that since people order sympathy flower arrangements when family and friends die, he might as well rescue his floundering business and fulfill a necessary public service at the same time.

Being surrounded by the dead does not disturb Belle. She's not superstitious, she doesn't believe in ghosts, and she isn't troubled by long stretches of silence.

Staying awake through the dark, lonely nights is by far the most challenging part of the job.

Wrapping her hands around the warm mug, Belle settles onto the couch and flips open Daphne du Maurier's novel Rebecca. She's grateful for her love of literature for many reasons, and the fact that reading hinders the impulse to sleep is certainly one of them. But tonight it's no use—the words on the page start to blur as her eyelids droop and her head grows heavy.

When Belle next opens her eyes, the sun is cresting the horizon and her father is shaking her awake, his face a mixture of annoyed resignation and tenderness.

She stretches and sighs. No matter how riveting the book, she always meets the Sandman on the night shift.

"It's a good thing you didn't miss any calls, Belle," Papa scolds, urging her to go home and sleep in a real bed before she's needed back at the Parlour after dinner.

* * *

Smoothing her wavy russet locks into a ponytail, Belle run-walks through the Parlour parking lot. She burned the chili she fixed for dinner, and cleaning up the mess has made her late. She fastens her hair away from her face with a red hairband and swings open the employee entrance as dusk settles over Storybrooke.

"You're late, Belles," Ruby Lucas-Whale calls.

Embarrassed at being caught rushing, Belle huffs and pokes her head around the corner. The heady stench of chemicals assaults her senses, causing her nose to wrinkle. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Well, he ain't goin' anywhere," she drawls, motioning towards the body she's preserving. "And nobody else would bust in here like the world's on fire." Ruby sniffs the air. "Do you smell chili?"

Belle studies the corpse on the stainless steel table, ignoring the question. "Is Mr. Johannsson almost ready for me? He looks so pale."

"Yes," Ruby looks up from stitching the deceased's incision site closed. "I'll bring him over to your station soon and you'll have him blushing like a new groom in no time. Ten minutes."

"Thanks, Rubes. You're the best there is." Belle smiles at her co-worker and lone friend.

"I'm the only one there is." Ruby's sigh is dramatic. "But I guess that's what happens when you marry the town coroner, eh?" She winks. "Gruesome is what we do."

Belle winces. Ruby's husband, Victor, is a kind soul. His assistant Jones, however, makes her skin crawl. "Yeah. I'll be out front."

Plopping down in the chair at the reception desk, Belle loses herself in paperwork while she waits for Ruby to release Mr. Johannsson into her care. Suddenly her skin prickles, the sensation of being watched causing goosebumps to pop along the nape of her neck.

"Miss French." A cold, accented voice taunts her from behind.

Belle lurches to her feet and whips around—though he's concealed himself in the darkened corner, she'd know that crude snarl anywhere. Killian Jones, the assistant coroner.

"Come out of the shadows," Belle orders. "You know the routine. Why didn't you ring the doorbell?"

Glassy, kohl-rimmed eyes look through her, and she shudders, feeling both invisible and exposed. Without a word, he jerks his thumb toward the back of the building. His loose-hipped stride is arrogant as he saunters through the Parlour to the unloading dock. Trembling, Belle follows, grateful to not have his strange eyes on her.

The gurney bearing the cadaver pouch is already inside. Belle has accepted many a dead body in five years, so the sudden, twisting sensation in her gut frightens her. There's no reason to be nervous.

"Who….who do you have in there?" she stammers.

Jones says nothing.

Unnerved by his silent leer, she fixes her attention on the body bag, wrestling it open with shaking fingers. As Belle struggles with the zipper, the assistant coroner arches a silent black eyebrow.

The bastard is relishing her discomfort, which only heightens Belle's anxiety. Why the hell doesn't Victor deliver the corpses anymore? At last she peels back enough of the thick black plastic to reveal the face of the person inside.

Mr. Gold.

Horrified, Belle claps her hand over her mouth and races to the restroom, skidding across the tile floor. Jones' maniacal laugh chases her, echoing off the walls. Belle runs faster, covering her ears to squeeze out the terrible noise. She gains the toilet just in time. Emptying the contents of her stomach, she wretches and heaves until there's nothing coming up but yellow, acrid bile.

A flash of red appears in front of her face. Belle shrieks and flails, upsetting a cup of water all over Ruby's blouse.

"I'm so sorry! God, I—I thought you were Jones." Belle moans and looks at her fingers, now smeared with tears and black mascara. The mosaic tile floor swims in front of her face, the plastic cup spinning like a top.

"That revolting creep?" Ruby barks. "I've begged Victor to fire him dozens of times. I don't know why he won't. Apology not accepted. It's my fault for startling you." She refills the cup and presses it into Belle's shaking hands.

"Mr. Gold is dead," Belle whispers.

"Car accident." Ruby nods, her eyes sharp and searching. "He rammed into a tree. No one else was involved, thank God. Are you ok?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean no. Yes…I…I we were barely acquainted," Belle stutters. "But he was kind to me. Most people aren't, you know. They say, 'There goes that weirdo Belle. The spinster freak show that hangs out at the funeral home.'"

"I hang out at the funeral home, too," Ruby reminds her wryly.

"That's different, Ruby. You have Victor. Also you don't care what other people think. I wish I didn't care, but I do. I've always wanted to be brave, to be someone's hero, but I never took the chance," Belle says. "Now it's too late."

"You're a wonderful person, Belle. Beautiful, kind, talented. You need more proof? Mr. Gold wasn't kind to anyone. You must have been very special to him." Ruby offers a sympathetic smile, and it's all the encouragement Belle needs to keep talking.

"Sometimes we would sit at the same booth at Granny's and drink tea together," Belle confides. "I always wanted to ask him out on a date, but I couldn't get the words out."

It's not exactly a lie.

She longed to speak to Mr. Gold—she just couldn't. Whenever she would try, no sound came out. Her vocal cords were frozen in his presence, like an old black-and-white horror movie filled with silent screams. Instead, she nodded and smiled at his cordial greetings, loving him quietly. He had never seemed to take offense, but perhaps he had died thinking she was strange, just like everyone else.

The idea depresses Belle, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Ruby soothes, handing her a small box of tissues. "Want me to take over now?"

"No." The denial hangs in the air as a plan forms. Tonight is her last chance to spend time with Mr. Gold, to show him how much she cares—and she's seizing it. "Ruby, please delay embalming."

Ruby opens her mouth to protest, but Belle holds up a hand. "Give me until morning."

She dare not reveal her motives to her friend, but she wants—no, needs—to be alone with Mr. Gold for one night. One night of pretending that they belong to each other. Is that so much to ask?

"You sure about this?" Ruby asks, pinning Belle with her shrewd green eyes.

"Positive." Belle releases a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"Ok. Call me anytime during the night," Ruby orders. "I mean it, Belles."

The tall, slender brunette stalks out of the restroom, leaving Belle alone to pull herself together for the long night ahead.

But there will be no work tonight.

Rising to her feet on wobbly legs, Belle smiles slightly at her reflection. "Tonight," she tells the dewy-eyed girl in the mirror, "is going to be special."

* * *

Ushering Ruby and her father out of the Parlour without betraying her eagerness to be alone with Mr. Gold requires all her willpower, but at last they are gone. Belle secures and locks all the doors, switching off all the lights save a Tiffany lamp with a warm, romantic glow. She wants no prying eyes, wagging tongues, or harsh lighting to interrupt the evening. Pulling her chair up close to where Mr. Gold rests on a narrow holding cot, Belle gazes at his beautiful face.

His hawkish, handsome features are unchanged, as is his collar-length hair Her fingertips find his grey-streaked locks warm and silky. She caresses his perfect eyebrows and his full lips, firm yet soft despite being ice cold.

But the freshness has stolen from his cheeks. A deathly pallor has claimed his features, once tanned and healthy. Pain has ploughed deep, cruel furrows into his brow, and those sparkling brown eyes, formerly alight with gentility and intelligence, are closed forevermore.

Oddly, he is still fully dressed in his trademark three-piece suit, including his polished shoes. Belle slips his Italian leather wingtips off his feet and draws a soft blanket around his chilled, rigid form. "Now you'll be more comfortable," she says.

And then it dawns on Belle—for the first time ever she is able to speak to Mr. Gold. What cruel irony. While one wall of communication has crumbled, death has erected yet another. He cannot reply to her comments, laugh at her jokes, or share his heart with her. Breaking down, Belle allows herself a just a few precious minutes to weep for what could have been.

Swiping her tear-spiked lashes, she lifts her eyeballs to the ceiling to stop the flow of tears. Tomorrow will be for grieving, but tonight is about enjoying the man she loves.

"You're so pale, my darling," she murmurs, smoothing her hand over the gash on his forehead. "Let's fix that now. We want you to look your best when you reach the Pearly Gates."

Makeup brush in hand, she smooths her best-quality makeup over his chiseled face, covers the gash, restores color to his cheeks, and erases the pale tint of his lips. Next she fetches her hairbrush and runs it through his hair until every strand is smooth and glistening.

All this labor must be redone tomorrow when Ruby drains his blood and pumps him full of formaldehyde, but Belle doesn't care. Mr. Gold is a proud and distinguished gentleman, and she instinctively knows that looking just so tonight will bring him comfort—even from the other side.

As she works Belle lavishes her sweetheart with endearments and praise. "You're so handsome," she says shyly. "Perhaps you don't think so, but you're beautiful to me."

Incredulous that she's actually sitting here speaking to him, she wonders aloud about his hopes, dreams, and doubts. Though she'll never be certain, she believes living a stubbornly solitary existence is his greatest regret.

Gold's estranged son lives halfway around the world and is unlikely to make an appearance at the funeral. "I'm so sorry about your son," she whispers into the cool and silent room. "What happened between you?"

Imagining his response, she nods her head in sympathy. "I think you tried too hard to protect him—from pain, from growing up, even from yourself," she surmises. "You don't believe you're worth loving, Mr. Gold, but you're wrong. Your son loves you. So do I."

"So perceptive." The echo of his voice in her head is forlorn. ""I thought collecting money, power, and prestige would solve my troubles. It didn't work out. I died a lonely and bitter old man."

"You're not a monster," she chides. "Nor are you old. You're mature. Worldly. Wonderful."

"Little Belle," phantom Gold replies, "you are too kind to an old monster. If only I had seen what was right there in front of me. If I had known you loved me, I could have been happy. We could have found a way back to Baelfire together. He would have liked you."

Flushing with pleasure at the imagined compliments, Belle glances at the gold pocket watch resting against his ribcage. How strange that Jones—who loves a flashy piece of gold—had not pilfered it. Snapping open the lid, Belle notes the time—11:53 p.m. Midnight is approaching, and the shocking, emotional events of the day make her even wearier than usual.

Worried about falling asleep and ruining their enchanted evening, she leaves Mr. Gold's side to switch on the coffeemaker. A jolt of caffeine may give her the boost she needs to prolong their makeshift date. As Belle pads back to the cot, she swears she sees Gold's arm move. Belle's heart leaps into her throat. Grasping his wrist hard, she sighs in defeat when she fails to find a pulse.

There's no use hoping. She can hear Ruby's voice in her head, lecturing her that any movement is merely rigor mortis.

Settled beside Mr. Gold once more, Belle struggles against her body's instincts, trying to stay awake. But as the clock tolls the witching hour, her eyelids grow heavy. Retrieving another blanket and sideling onto the cot, Belle decides that if she must rest, she's going to sleep beside her beloved.

Needing to feel as much of him as possible, she removes his tie and unfastens enough buttons so that his fine lawn shirt gapes open, exposing his smooth chest. Stroking his sternum, she hums in pleasure. He's cold and smooth, like carved marble. And if she concentrates, she can almost feel the steady thump of his heart.

Curled against his side, the musky, spicy scent of his cologne envelopes her, making her feel tranquil and drowsy. Pretending that they're simply a married couple retiring for the evening, Belle drifts off to sleep.

Sliding deeply into slumber, she opens the door to the strangest, most vivid dream.

* * *

Reclining on her back in the cool green grass with a book in her hands, Belle soaks up a few more moments of sunshine and literature. She squints at the sundial. It's past teatime, she realizes, scrambling to her feet. She brushes off her skirts and strolls back to the castle.

Glancing down at herself, she marvels at the handmade lovely blue gown with a Basque waist, white blouse, and white heeled slippers that she's wearing—a far cry from the blue jeans and black sweater she had worn into the Parlour tonight.

But the clothes feel like hers and the massive, imposing citadel looming before her feels like home.

Wandering through the back entrance of the Great Hall, she spots him immediately—the master of the castle. Seated at a well-worn spinning wheel is a magnificent creature, resplendent in deep brown leather trousers that cling deliciously to his compact thighs, an exquisitely woven silk shirt in a cabernet hue, and leather boots laced all the way up to his knees. Wavy brown hair drapes over his high collar and his skin is a sparkling grayish green. Outlandish and otherworldly though he appears, he reminds her of someone else she knows, but she is too dazzled by his beauty to think.

Unfathomable, ancient golden eyes capture hers, and the adoration in his gaze steals her breath.

"Hello, my lady," he greets, beckoning her closer with his elegant, clawed hand.

"Husband," she hears herself say. Belle curtseys, dropping a kiss on the top of his curly head.

"Not a very thorough caretaker, are you?" he teases with a smile. "Lounging in the garden all afternoon with a romance novel and forgetting to take tea with your master."

They laugh together, enjoying their running joke, but his countenance is strained. She reaches for him, caressing his smooth cheek. "What's troubling you?"

"It's nothing, sweetheart." He turns back to his spinning, turning the wheel with studious care.

"Please talk to me," she says, perching on the little wooden bench next to him.

"You don't need to be troubled by the sepulchral whims of an old monster," he scoffs.

"You're not a monster," she scolds. ""Nor are you old. You're mature. Worldly. Wonderful. And mine."

Hadn't they already had this conversation today?

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she concentrates on other, more pleasant pastimes. Belle begins to unbutton his silk shirt, the material gliding through her eager fingers. Stroking his smooth chest, she relishes the powerful pounding of his heart beneath her palm.

Still turning the wheel, he pretends to ignore her advances. She rises from the bench and he whimpers in protest, but she resettles herself in his lap and he sighs in relief. Belle smiles, elated with the confirmation that he is not as unaffected as he seems. The coolness of his leathers contrasts deliciously with the ache of her restless body, and Belle claims his mouth in a feverish kiss, the passion scorching her tender, full lips.

"Belle," he groans against her neck, and her pulse point throbs under his quickening breath. Rumplestiltskin was licking and biting his way down her throat to the valley between her breasts. "Your skin is so sweet. Like rosewater and honey. One taste is never enough."

In answer she tugs gently on his hair, scraping her blunt nails along his scalp as she delves into his ear with the tip of her tongue. "I love you," she says.

"And I love you, too."

Slipping out of his embrace, she pulls him to his feet. "Come to bed now," she requests, her voice husky and wanting. His eyes spark with fire and mischief, and he follows her up the winding staircase to their bedchamber.

"Clothes off," she orders without preamble, pushing him down on the enormous canopied bed and sliding on top of him with a grin.

"As my lady commands," he says, and a snap of his fingers divests them of every stitch.

Belle straddles him with a moan, lifting his hands to her breasts. He responds enthusiastically, eager to begin plucking and rolling her rosy, hardened nipples, and she grinds her center against his cock, wet and pulsing and aching to be taken.

" So eager," he says with a chuckle before he captures a dangling globe with his mouth, drawing the nipple forward with his teeth and sucking hard.

Later they will make love slowly and with care, mapping every inch of each other's bodies with hands and tongues, but right now, Belle is desperate for him to be inside her.

"Yes," she groans. "Need you. Now." Impatient, she impales herself along his hard, searing length and begins to ride him hard.

Her husband digs his claws into her hips, guiding her movements as she bucks and thrusts, faster and faster, and she glories in the pleasure-pain of his rough, cool hands and the press of his cock, deeper and deeper, filling her emptiness in a way that only he can.

Rumple's hand slides down, off her hip, toward the place where their two bodies join, and his deft spinner's fingers find her pearl, pinching and rubbing, and she cries out in a series of broken moans.

All wiry, corded strength, the man beneath her arches, snapping his hips, and Belle continues her punishing pace.

There is a delicious strain in his voice as he whimpers, "Come for me, wife. Come now."

Belle falls on command, screaming as her inner walls clench, and her abdomen pulses with liquid heat. Her husband gives his own triumphant shout as he shunts his hips erratically, pumping his seed into her thirsty body.

Much later, when they lay sticky and sated in each other's arms, she reaches out to him again. "Are you ready to talk to me?"

Save the crackle of the fire, Belle's hushed voice is the only sound in the room.

Feeling his body tense, she waits patiently, caressing his collarbone. At last he speaks, his tone uneasy. "I had a vision today. You were burying me."

"Burying you?"

"Aye. In a grave," he clarifies." You held a cluster of wild roses in your hands."

"But that's impossible," she sputters, bolting up in bed. "You're the Dark One. Immortal. With all your power, nothing and no one can touch us."

"Immortal doesn't mean one can't be killed, sweetheart," he says.

"The sight isn't foolproof, though, is it?" Belle bites her lip. She loves her husband, but she hates his strange gift. The power doesn't trouble her, but being tormented by the possibilities of a bleak future does. For her, it's so much better not to know and to take life one day at a time. "Husband, no one decides our fate but us."

"You're right," he concedes, easing her back into the circle of his arms. "The future can always change."

"It will change," she says confidently, nuzzling his neck. "Forever, remember? I will never bury you. Never. Never bury…never bury…never bury…"

* * *

Sunday, November 1st  
Early Morning

Belle strains toward wakefulness. An ominous presence pushes on her chest, and she gulps for air. Ruby is standing over her, but Belle cannot move or speak to allay the concern twisting her friend's pale features.

Suddenly aware that she is draped over Gold's body with her head nestled against his naked chest, Belle hides her fiery face in his stiff neck.

"Still dark," Belle mumbles when she garners enough courage to look at Ruby's horrified expression. "What time is it?"

"Almost five o' clock," her friend answers. "Belle, it's time."

"I'm not ready. A little while longer, please?" Belle tightens her hold on Mr. Gold.

"No, Belles. You were talking in your sleep. You kept saying the words 'Never bury, Never bury,' over and over again. And you're sleeping with a dead man." Ruby drags her off the cot and away from her love.

"I'm not crazy!" Belle snaps, pushing Ruby away and wrapping her arms around herself.

"Of course not."

"I can't believe he's gone." Belle shakes her head. "Are you certain he's dead? Last night he moved—"

"Rigor mortis," Ruby waves at Gold's lifeless body and envelopes Belle in a tight hug. "Honey, I know you cared for him, but this is not Gold. He's a shell; no pulse, no heartbeat, nothing. No matter how long you hold onto him, he's not coming back."

"Rubes." Belle pushes away from her friend, her fingers white against Ruby's blood-red sweater.

"He's not coming back," Ruby repeats.

Ruby opens her arms again and Belle collapses into her embrace. Eyes fixated on Gold, Belle fists her hands into Ruby's sweater, digging holes into the knit. Gold's face becomes a blurry mass. "I know," she moans. "Oh, God, I know." The floodgates burst, and Belle sobs out her anguish. Distress mingles with the hammering in her skull, and she rushes to the restroom to vomit.

Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she returns to Ruby, who is still standing next to Mr. Gold's body, waiting for the go-ahead to start. Woodenly, Belle grants permission for the embalming process to begin, walks into her father's empty office, and closes the door.

* * *

Staring at the gaping mouth of Mr. Gold's grave makes her queasy, but Belle cannot look away from that casket now nestled six feet underground. After Ruby had completed the embalming, Belle did the best work of her life preparing Mr. Gold for eternal rest.

A small band of mourners had paid their respects in the gloaming, climbed into their cars, and returned to their lives. Though Ruby had tried to take her home and tuck her into bed, Belle wasn't ready to leave Mr. Gold.

She still isn't ready.

Now night has fallen black and moonless over the churchyard. The air is thick with the scent of rain, and the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl are her lone companions. Belle clutches a bouquet of wild roses, a final testimony of her love.

A twig snaps and Belle jumps, glancing wildly around the cemetery.

"Miss French." Killian Jones steps out from behind a crumbling mausoleum, fog swirling around his legs.

"What is it?" she snaps. "Can you not allow a person to mourn in peace?"

"All these tears for that coward Gold? He laughs, low and menacing, and the odor of cheap rum scorches Belle's nostrils. "Come here; I want to show you something," he says.

"You're drunk." She spins away from his mocking eyes as cold rain begins to fall.

He thrusts a crumpled piece of paper under Belle's nose. The small square of fine linen is torn, damp, and dirty. But there is a message on the paper, faint yet legible. Belle snatches it from Jones' grasp and scans the words frantically.

To Whom It May Concern:  
I have a condition called **Catalepsy.**  
Under NO circumstances should an autopsy be performed.  
Please defer interment until signs of decomposition set in.  
Sincerely,  
R. Gold

The drumbeat of rainwater soaks the scrap of evidence in her hands.

"Catalepsy? A catatonic coma?" A violent shudder racks her body; she's hysterical with disbelief. "He wasn't dead. He was unconscious. You killed him you sick, sadistic bastard!"

Evil triumph glows in Jones' icy eyes, and Belle's heart burns with hatred. She grips his shoulders, biting into his bones. "Where did you find this? Where!"

"Left breast pocket at the scene of the crash." Jones shrugs, taking advantage of the slick grass to pull her flush against him. "Just doing my job as coroner," he whispers in her ear.

"Assistant coroner," she hisses, pushing on his chest. "And a murderer!"

"Technicality, love," he says. "I didn't kill him. I just didn't tell anyone the old bastard was dead. It was an episode—he blacked out and wrapped his car around a tree. No witnesses equals no questions."

Belle sways on her feet. The random jerk of Gold's arm hadn't been rigor mortis at all. He had been alive at the Parlour. Until she and Ruby had prepared him for death, sealing his fate.

"I'll be a witness!" Belle scrambles against her soaked trench coat for her mobile phone. "Sheriff Humbert will have plenty of questions."

Her heart is shattered, but picking up the pieces must wait. Jones cannot get away with this.

"No, I don't think you'll be making any calls tonight," he says, wrapping a scarf around her mouth. He flings her cell phone into the darkness, his insane laughter howling above the wind. "And what would you say? That a man came into the Parlour alive, but now he's dead? You killed him, Miss French. And now there's nothing left for you to do but to join him."

Belle struggles against Jones' hold, but her screams for help are only muffled groans.

"Smee," Jones shouts into the hole in the ground, pushing Belle to the edge of the grave. "Crack the casket!"

Belle digs her toes in the dirt, clawing for purchase, but Jones is stronger. She careens over the precipice into the open casket, Gold's now truly dead body softening her landing.

"Oh, sweetheart!" she wails. "I'm so sorry!"

The casket slams with a click, and Belle stuffs her ears against the shovelfuls of earth being piled on top of the coffin in rhythmic thumps.

An eerie calm penetrates her panic, and she murmurs prayers into Gold's soft collar until the last sips of oxygen are gone.

The comfort of his closeness and the pinging of rain against their shared grave is a lullaby. Belle brushes his cold lips with her warm, wet ones and closes her eyes.

* * *

The Enchanted Forest – The Dark Castle  
32 Years Earlier

Belle's eyes fly open, her pulse pounding. Breathless, she can neither move nor speak, but she resists the urge to thrash. Straining will only prolong the sensation of paralysis. Gradually her patience is rewarded; her limbs loosen and she becomes aware of her surroundings.

She's not clawing at the insides of a coffin, nor are her fingernails buried in dirt and scraped by gravel. Her fingers are grasping for purchase in soft sheets. The hard, cold ground has given way to an enormous, soft feather mattress. It's the dead of night, the room's only light coming from a steadily burning fire.

Rumplestiltskin is perched on the side of the bed, his taut features illuminated by the flickering flames. "Sweetheart, you were having a nightmare."

"Rumple," she gasps, lurching up so fast she smacks her head on the walnut headboard. Barely registering the pain, she flings herself into his arms. "You're alive. You're all right. I love you. I love you so much. I was in this terrible place, Rumple. I was with you, but without you. You looked different. You were so pale. So pale and I thought you were dead." Belle babbles and sobs against the cool, soft leather of his vest.

Rocking her and rubbing her head, he soothes the injured spot and strokes her curls, which are tight and damp around her face from the strain of the nightmare. Still holding her gently, he shifts backward to look at her, his green-grey face a mask of confused concern.

"Of course I'm alive, my precious one. I'm immortal, remember? Anyway, you'll not be rid of me so easily. You already pledged me forever—twice." His laugh carries the bite of anguish, and Belle knows he's holding something back.

"It's the curse, isn't it? It's time." She meets his fatigued, worried eyes with a mixture of hope and resignation.

"Yes," he says, his voice laced with dread. "Belle, I can't put it off any longer. I-I can't stop the events I've put in motion."

"Rumple, we're going to find Baelfire." Smiling softly, she brings his hand to her face, drawing his knuckles across the apple of her cheek. "Where are we going? When?"

A third voice joins the conversation. "To a charming hamlet called Storybrooke."

Regina.

The evil queen strikes a pose in the stone archway—tall, regal, and cold as ice. "My, my, isn't this cozy?"

"How dare you waltz into our bedchamber in the middle of the night?" Rumple hisses, enraged. "Our meeting is not until morning!"

"It's not my fault your wards are so flimsy," Regina says with mock innocence, dangling the scroll bearing the curse before him. "Besides, I couldn't wait." She claps her hands gleefully like a small child.

"Your curse is not quite ready, dearie," Rumple says, and Belle knows from the tick of his jaw and his clenched teeth that Regina's surprise visit has unnerved her husband.

For weeks Rumple has been telling her that they need to buy more time, or else Regina will be able to manipulate too many details to her satisfaction, perhaps even tangle with the fate of their own true love.

"Close enough." Fingering the scroll, Regina sweeps her long black train behind her and stalks toward the bed with a predatory glare. "I'll add the finishing touches. After all, I did learn from the master."

Frightened and hazy from her terrible, realistic dream…Or was it a vision?...Belle clings to Rumple throughout the argument. She watches the queen glide to her vanity table and make herself comfortable in the velvet chair.

Inclining her head toward the mirror, Regina meets Belle's eyes in the glass and gives her a glacial smile. "Kitty cat got your tongue, Belle? Oh yes, I've been watching. You really should learn to keep these mirrors covered, dear."

"I'm not afraid of you!" Belle lifts her chin in defiance, even as she fists nervous hands in Rumple's shirt.

"But you should be." Regina snaps her fingers, producing an elegant, bejeweled box. "I'm the one with the power now. Soon, I'll control your occupation, your friends, even who you speak to."

"You won't get away with this," Rumple spits venomously. "If you harm one hair on Belle's head I will kill you."

"Really?" Regina asks, drawing a plump, glowing red heart from the box. When she squeezes it for emphasis, Belle clutches her chest and moans. Somehow, Regina has taken possession of Belle's heart.

"How did you get her heart?" Rumple sounds terrified, increasing Belle's fear. He's on his feet in an instant and a fireball blazes to life in his open palm.

"Rumple, your services are no longer required," Regina says. "It's your turn to make some sacrifices. Unless you want to see what happens when I take this heart and grind it into dust."

Belle grabs her chest in agony as Regina's sharp nails pinch the heart in her hand.

"No!" Rumple surrenders, throwing the flaming ball into the fireplace and pulling Belle back into his arms. "Please. I believe you."

Regina drops gracefully into the vanity chair again, meeting Belle's eyes through the mirror. Even with Rumple's arms around her, Belle shrinks under her withering gaze. This evil woman holds her heart, and there's no telling what she will do next.

"I don't want you to think I'm entirely cruel, dear," Regina says, lifting a makeup brush and dabbing some rouge on her pale cheeks. "You'll still get to see your beloved and I've made allowances for your talents."

"What do you mean, my talents?" Belle's stomach cramps with fear.

"I know how much you love being a caretaker," Regina says. "In your new role, there will be plenty of people for you to care for. Bring your pot of rouge, dear. The Parlour is cold and dark…and all the faces are pale."

* * *

The Enchanted Forest – The Dark Castle  
One Week Before the Dark Curse

Rumplestiltskin and Belle are nearly out of time. Before long, Regina will assemble the final ingredients required to cast the curse, fulfilling her plot to separate them forever.

"Regina's going to burn for what she's done," Rumple promises, prowling like a caged animal in front of the fireplace in the Great Hall. Exasperated, he rakes a hand through his wavy hair.

"And what of the evil she is still planning? She has my heart and once we get to the Land Without Magic, she will arrange to kill bury us alive." Belle's typically cheerful countenance was downcast, her tone gloomy. "You heard her—she's going to keep me isolated in a funeral parlour until the day you turn up dead. If she has this much hold over our lives, how will we find each other, not to mention locate Baelfire?"

Tracing the spine of the novel in her lap, she sighs in defeat. On strict orders from Dr. Frankenstein, she's been trying to relax. But with tension twisting her stomach into knots and the taste of fear acrid in her mouth, Belle doesn't feel like reading. Tears stream down her face, wetting the pages.

"Remember what you always tell me, sweetheart?" Rumple strides across the room to the settee, kneeling before her to wipe her face with a soft, silk handkerchief. "No one decides our fate but us. The future is whatever we determine it shall be—that means it can always be changed."

Belle manages a watery smile. How like her Rumple to find a way to be positive when she is in despair. She loops her arms around his neck and the forgotten book slides to the floor with a hollow thump. "You are my hope, my comfort, and my joy, do you know that?"

"All my strength comes from you. There's nothing I will not do to ensure your safety and happiness," he swears, his eyes filled with tears. "If I had not foolishly left the curse unattended, none of this would be happening."

"Don't torment yourself, Rumple." Belle strokes his brow. "Regina's fond of blaming others for her troubles, but she makes her own choices."

Releasing a muffled sob, he buries his head in her lap as she runs her fingers through his hair. "That witch will not succeed," he says, rubbing his cheek against her thigh. "We'll find a way to retrieve your heart and get the curse back."

Belle murmurs in agreement, but her thinking is muddled and the effort to be helpful seems far beyond her capabilities. Without her heart, strong, sharp, passionate Belle is weak, listless, and out of brilliant ideas.

They comfort each other in silence for a while, the only sound in the room the crackling of the warm fire. A long time later Rumple looks up, his gold-green eyes glinting with purpose. "I have a plan."

Belle nods absently.

"Look at me, Belle." He tilts her chin until her dull eyes focus on him. He brushes a feather light kiss across the tip of her nose. "Let's get your cloak and go, sweetheart. We're getting your heart back tonight."

* * *

Holding fast to Rumple, Belle squeezes her eyes shut as he them onto Regina's land, the queen's craggy citadel yet half a mile away. Using magic to take them all the way there is too unsafe. The queen's domain is a great distance away from the Dark Castle, and Rumple must reserve strength for the battle to come.

As they walk arm-in-arm, Belle leafs through an ancient spell book seeking solutions, but she cannot concentrate. Rumple guides her clumsy feet over exposed tree roots and uneven ground. When she stumbles again, he tucks the book inside his jerkin and lifts her into his arms. Tucking her head against his shoulder, he carries her the rest of the way.

Gaining the entrance to Regina's cold and imposing palace, Rumple sets Belle on her feet. He jerks her against him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Belle moans and clings to his shoulders. But even in that desperate moment of passion, Belle feels removed and lost—like she's floating above the scene, watching her husband kiss a copycat.

Rumple rests his forehead against hers, his breath harsh and ragged. "Don't be afraid. No matter what happens, we do this together," he says. "Stay close to me."

Belle nods her understanding, grateful for Rumple's confidence and control. She feels like a shadow, all faith in herself locked away, just like her heart.

Moving as one, they wind through the labyrinth of corridors. Rumple throws magic with practiced finesse, toppling guards like they're dominoes. He leads Belle to Regina's vault—the place where she holds the hearts of every soul in her thrall.

Blasting through the wards, Rumple rips through the massive doors like they're made of paper instead of magic-encased steel. Bowing gallantly, he invites Belle to precede him down the dark stone staircase; he follows close behind. She smiles briefly at his attempt to amuse her with his theatrics.

A steady, rhythmic noise punctuates their every step. As they draw closer to the bottom of the staircase, the sound grows louder and louder. They reach the landing and Belle gasps—on all four walls are thousands of drawers filled with identical boxes.

"I hear beating," Belle shudders, her knees wobbling like a newborn colt. The hearts in their velvet prisons seem to cry out, clamoring in a staccato plea for release.

Rumple draws his wife against his side, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist. "Watch this." Rumple winks at Belle and whistles a command. Instantly, a drawer glides open.

Belle's eyes grow wide with wonder. "Did you just?..."

"Call your heart. Yes." His eyes warm and filled with love, he snaps the lock open and reverently removes her pure and beautiful heart.

"Now why am I surprised that my heart responds to your beckoning?" she asks, caressing his jawline. "It belongs to you."

"Yes," he agrees, as they look down at the heart together. "Mine forever."

Bestowing a kiss on the glowing red vessel, Rumple thrusts the organ home and seals Belle's chest with a protection spell. "I should have done that long ago," he says, his tone laced with regret.

With her heart restored, Belle's energy, wit, and determination resurges. "It's time to get that curse back," she says. "Where is that wretched woman hiding?"

Rumple grins at his wife, already back to her courageous, endearing self. "This way."

Dispatching another wave of Regina's goons as they go, Rumple and Belle climb hundreds of stairs to Regina's tallest tower until Belle is breathless, wheezing, and clinging to Rumple for support. "Who the hell needs this many steps?" he complains, zapping them into Regina's private quarters with a flourish.

"Rumplestiltskin!" Regina rushes to cover her nakedness with a massive bearskin rug. A steaming tub and her sopping hair is evidence of her recent bath. "How dare you barge into my chambers unannounced!"

"I'm here too, Your Majesty," Belle reminds her, annoyed. "It doesn't feel so wonderful, does it? Being treated like you're invisible?" Belle glares at the raven-haired queen, then her eyes narrow even further as she recognizes a familiar object. "Did you take that rug from my mater's castle when you stole my heart?"

Regina's hair is dripping, her discomfiture evident, and Belle presses the advantage. "You may want to dry off with something else. Rumple and I killed that bear together and we've celebrated our victory on that rug...many, many, many times."

Shrieking, Regina hurls the heavy fur pelt away, magicking herself into a black gown snug enough to be a second skin.

Reclined casually against the wall with his arms crossed, Rumple smothers a laugh. Regina has chosen a high neckline and her arms are crossed nervously over her chest. Watching his beautiful Belle unnerve Regina is a rare treat. But now it's time for his part in their little spectacle, and he pushes off the wall to stalk toward his wife.

"Belle!" Rumplestiltskin rebukes her sharply, jerking her arm painfully. "That is quite enough."

"Why are you here?" Regina's voice is hard and directed at Rumple. "I can tell from her impudent mouth that your little maid has retrieved her heart, so what else do you want?"

"Ignore Belle, dearie. I'm thoroughly vexed with her. You and I have an urgent matter to discuss," Rumple explains in a rush. "Thanks to my wife, you accidentally pilfered the wrong curse."

Trying to appear affable, he marshals every ounce of patience to make it look like he's on her side. Well perhaps not for her, but at least not against her. Resisting the urge to berate Regina for belittling Belle is challenging, but he lets it go—this time. Regina has always valued power over planning, and he hopes she will believe the outrageous lie.

"Accidentally?" Regina snaps, suspicious.

He shrugs, holding out a copycat scroll. "This is the one you'll want to use when you cast the curse."

"And this is the correct scroll?" She snatches it out of his clenched claw, studying it with a furrowed brow. "Why should I trust you, imp?"

He splays a hand over his heart, opening his mouth in mock horror. "Why, child, you cut me to the quick! After all we've been through together?" He titters.

Looking on, Belle says nothing, but Regina pounces on her sullen expression like a tigress on fresh blood.

"You don't approve, Princess?" Regina asks.

"What I think hardly matters." Belle's admission is humble and she casts her eyes to the floor. "The Dark One wants you to have the curse." She casts a brief, nervous glance at Rumplestiltskin as if wondering how far she dare go. "His power is very important to him."

"He seemed quite taken with you at my visit." Regina frames her lean hip with a manicured hand.

"That was before he discovered my betrayal," Belle whispers.

Regina is ignorant of compassion, generosity, and relational equality, not to mention True Love. No doubt she believes that Rumple sees Belle as nothing more than another decorative trinket; an object to be used.

"Indeed?" Regina seems mollified by Belle's shame.

"Yes, we made a deal," Belle continues. "He retrieved my heart from your vault and in exchange, he will not throw me in the dungeon for exchanging the scrolls."

"Correct!" Rumple says, glaring at Belle and rolling his 'Rs' dramatically. "If anyone is going to crush my maid's heart, it's going to be me!"

"Very well," Regina nods and pity for Belle flashes briefly across her features. "Perhaps I won't be quite as hard on you as I planned when we reach the new world." The monarch hands the scroll she took from the Dark Castle to Rumplestiltskin.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Belle says, keeping her eyes on the cobblestone floor.

Greedy eyes fixed on the curse, Regina waves her hand regally, dismissing them.

Never turning her back on their mercurial hostess, Belle follows Rumple's lead as he backs out of the Evil Queen's royal chambers.

* * *

"I still can't believe she fell for that trick with the scroll," Belle says, her voice thick with excitement.

"You were magnificent," Rumple compliments, offering her the plate of tea cakes. "Did I hurt you when I grabbed your arm?" His voice is low and cautious, as though she might truly believe he meant to cause her pain.

"Of course not," she says. "I knew it was all part of the scheme. Regina would never believe that you, the Dark One, could be capable of choosing love over power."

They're taking tea on floor of Belle's library, a makeshift picnic on their bearskin rug. The rug had arrived ahead of them back at the Dark Castle, hastily messengered by Regina. Perhaps learning of its use has scarred the other woman permanently. One could only hope, Belle muses.

"Regina is not the smartest pupil I have ever trained," Rumple says. "But she is determined, vindictive, and full of hate—a dangerous combination. In my desperation to get to my son, I fear I exploited those weaknesses in her spirit."

"You must stop blaming yourself for that," Belle chides. "Do you punish others for your sins? I think not."

"Oh, Belle." His voice is thick with emotion as he drags her into his arms. "Your faith in me is extraordinary. How you can see the man behind this monster, I will never understand."

"I love you," she says, settling the matter. Rumple may not believe in himself, but Belle has enough faith in him for both of them. "What happens now? If Regina finds out..."

"It will be too late. At dawn we destroy the curse and Regina will never touch you again." His tone is resolute, if mournful.

"And Baelfire?" Worry creases her features. Rumplestiltskin has spent three centuries searching for his son. Now Belle is equally desperate to find and love him like her own son.

"Someone very wise taught me that the future is ripe with possibilities," he says, lacing his fingers though hers. "We will find another way to Bae. Together."

"Yes, she says squeezing his fingers, then pushing him down on the bearskin for a kiss. "Always together."

THE END


End file.
